


Out Of Breath

by Chryselis



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Asphyxiation, Belligerent Sexual Tension, Dom Ferdinand von Aegir, Ferdinand cries, First Kiss, Hate Sex, Hubert POV, Hubert has terrible coping mechanisms, Hubert is a masochist, Hubert isn't very nice about it, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Pre-Timeskip | Academy Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Sparring, Spoiler: he doesn't cope, Sub Hubert von Vestra, They spar and Hubert gets a boner, boot licking, more like hate blowjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-01-20 17:28:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21285440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chryselis/pseuds/Chryselis
Summary: As if Hubert didn’t already have enough reason to loathe their wildly suspicious professor, they had adjusted his class schedule so that it would line up with Von Aegir’s. They were officially sparring partners.Sparring.Hubert Von Vestra.Against Ferdinand Von Aegir.The audacity of it.(Also known as 'Hubert pretends that feeling in his stomach is just hate for Ferdinand and that he's not at all distracted by the other's prowess with a lance while sparring'.)
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 20
Kudos: 261





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Froggie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Froggie/gifts).

> Pre-timeskip Hubert and Ferdinand being absolute disasters written for Frog's birthday, based on asphyxiation and sparring as a prompt <3
> 
> This isn't a sweet romantic first time. This is feelings and hormones boiling over when not dealt with maturely. Bonus Hubert getting off on being choked. Enjoy. *thumbsup*

As if Hubert didn’t already have enough reason to loathe their wildly suspicious professor, from the general air of mystery surrounding them to the months of stable duty he’d begrudgingly endured with the insufferable Von Aegir at their bequest. The professor had adjusted his class schedule so that it would line up with Von Aegir’s.

They were officially sparring partners.  
  
Sparring.

Hubert Von Vestra.

Against Ferdinand Von Aegir.

Partners.

Of course, he understands the imperative need for physical maintenance and skill with a weapon of predilection, that is far from the issue. Hubert cultivated a particular physical disposition for a multitude of reasons, from the more nefarious to the downright mundane, all leading to one conclusion: he must be the perfect weapon in the shadows to serve his lady Edelgard.

_In line with training your skills on horseback to make the most of your offensive striking power, and as a more straightforward conduit for magic, it’s only logical that you focus on the lance. And Ferdinand is by far the best in this class with a lance._

The professor had explained so calmly, impassively, as if it wasn’t an insult to every fiber of Hubert’s being.

Logical indeed. How loathe Hubert is to consider his closest friend of reason even a momentary enemy. He casts a careful glance across the training grounds to where Ferdinand is daintily removing his uniform jacket and hanging it from one of the railings, an emotion so strong that he can only approximate it to disdain bubbling in his stomach in complaint. Hubert accordingly adjusts his grip around his weapon’s shaft, muscles coiled in tension as if expecting any moment now that his enemy will strike for the kill. Today is not the day Ferdinand will live to gloat and holler about besting him without breaking a sweat. Hubert would sooner get reprimanded for attempting to slash the abhorrent sycophant’s throat than willingly give him any advantage.

Ferdinand seems unsurprisingly perturbed by the situation, moron that he is. Casually picking up a training spear from the rack and giving it a needless twirl, typical flourish of someone that is all form over substance, the pomp and circumstance of his gait, hair, gleam in his eyes, everything when he stands to face Hubert and exclaims:

“Well now, Hubert. Your form is so tense. Do you wish to take a moment before we begin?”

Get on with it you courteous little shit, Hubert nearly spits, his self-control around Von Aegir weary from the years of rolling his eyes at the general bluster accompanying the insultingly vibrant redhead he’s been forced to endure by the outdated concept of nobility his lady intends to topple and leave for dead in a warm pool of metaphorical blue blood. Instead though he breathes in, and simply adjusts his stance to indicate that they’re ready to begin.

Ferdinand has the gall to sigh, as if getting on with this training session as quickly as possible isn’t in both their interests. Even worse, he shakes his head and uses that misplaced condescending tone, the one he routinely embarrasses himself with while waxing lyrical about the virtues of nobility, to chastise Hubert, openly, of all things -

“Do not say I did not warn you when your muscles cramp up. I have seen you use a lance when necessary, but even as a mage if you are to spar with me regularly you will need to warm up your body with this type of exercise in mind. Otherwise it’ll only serve to cause wear and injury.”

Hubert hopes the nerve twitching at his temple is visible, even from a distance.

“Spare me your platitudes Von Aegir and show me if there is anything you can do with a lance that is more than twirling a fancy stick.”

Hubris, it would seem, is not limited to bombastic nobles with pretty hair and pale freckled skin. The split second it takes for Ferdinand to extend in some absurdly perfect form and swipe Hubert’s legs from under him, with a kick at that, not even the goddess forsaken lance, the tip of which is now gently nudging the underside of Hubert’s chin -

That feeling in Hubert’s stomach threatens to boil over and before Ferdinand can say anything the disgruntled mage rolls out of reach to a safer distance, thanks to a quick calculation of each of their ranges, and the sparring begins in earnest. Ferdinand is relentless and matches his escape with economic movements, the obvious difference between their technique causing Hubert’s fingers to tremble and twitch. He wishes he had removed his gloves, something, anything, to get away from the unwelcome heat he’s experiencing, unable to tear his eyes away from Ferdinand for reasons he’s convinced are nothing more than survival instinct. He manages a few dodges but somehow all of his strikes miss so laughably, strands of hair already sticking to his face where sweat is trailing it, while Ferdinand steps back into position, that predictability Hubert is used to wiped from his face, replaced by the lance through which he’s now living.

A step forward, a swipe, a turn, a flourished feint in a practiced one two three four that unwittingly pulls Hubert along in a bizarre choreography, not immobilizing him rather - dancing around him, dare he say, as if Ferdinand is showing exactly what it is he can do with a fancy twirly stick and how easily he could skewer him with it.

Hubert absolutely loathes it.

He strikes back, a wild snarl breaking free of his throat, and Ferdinand looks almost hurt when his eyes widen for a fraction of a second before he rhythmically- one, two, one, two, Hubert thinks- steps in knocks the lance out of Hubert’s grip. Helpless, Hubert watches in slow-motion disbelief as gravity reclaims his center and Ferdinand disappears from his vision, the ground welcoming him once more with a sharp thud and jabbing pain to his shoulder blades. Then suddenly Von Aegir is straddling him, wider than he should be if his aim were really to immobilize him, and the boy - no, soldier - has him pinned, the lance’s wooden shaft pressuring his Adam's apple in warning.

When he looks up something happens, passes between them and turns Ferdinand’s face from that usual naive little sunshine air to something darker, wild, afraid, and the lance presses down harder against Hubert’s throat.

It’s only then that Hubert realizes he isn’t even pushing back. He’s lying there, thrumming with anticipation, fingers digging into the dirt and filth around him, as if that flash of something feral and defensive is instantly tamed by the restriction to his windpipe.

Operating on instinct, he grabs the lance and pulls it down against him harder.  
  
“H-Hubert what- “

Ferdinand collapses down on him, which is ridiculous, nothing about the action should have been enough to destabilize him, and yet the warm restriction feels like a long-awaited release. Something has snapped, Hubert knows this, but it’s spiraled out of control, down through his chest to his groin and the very tips of his toes where they struggle against the dust and he guides Ferdinand’s lance down, down further with the rest of him sinking into labored breaths and barely there consciousness only kept alive by what feels like rain- rain?

Ferdinand is crying.

Hubert lets go of the lance and Ferdinand tries to scramble off him but it’s far too late now, Ferdinand has opened pandora’s box and released Hubert’s voice for it to croak out:

“Wait.”

And he does, like the good obedient noble he is.

Ferdinand’s sniffling now, a scared and confused child, a vague memory of the first time Hubert plunged a dagger into an animal far too close to the surface. He knows this moment so well, relishes in it, accomplishes all his greatest deeds in the name of a future they have yet to paint with the tears of people desperate, afraid, heart pumping blood away from the regions of the brain that would maybe help them get away. And yet… That isn’t what he wants right now, he wants to be the one to cry, he wants Ferdinand to choke him and take his breath away so that he can taste that fear for his own, grow stronger from it, and that utter fool Von Aegir doesn’t run. Of course he wouldn’t, the imbecile, he would be the one to see the shadow of Hubert’s twisted lust and greed and reach for it.

A hand on Hubert’s cheek, searing. A voice like honey, suffocating with sweetness, fingers drifting down to where he wishes they would tear and dig, rip at the skin of his throat and take his voice away before he asks for something the other isn’t prepared to give.

“Hubert?”

Words. Ferdinand is always so fond of words, useless, the hypocrisy of men too ignorant and small to carry out anything with real lasting consequences.

To maim. Scar. Kill. And enjoy it.

Somehow Ferdinand clambers back onto Hubert and Hubert accommodates him, hands winding into silken locks far too fair for those sullied hands of his, and it hurts, oh how he wants it to hurt, reality escaping from him until a too kind reminder pulls him back from the distance he’d tried to create, to forget that he’s fucking turned on right now goddess damn it, and Ferdinand is so, so-

“Hubert please! Say something! What’s happening? Did I hurt you? Are you ill?”

Hubert blinks. Ferdinand is crying still. If words are for fools then Hubert is the wisest man alive in this moment, because silence is all he can give before pressing Ferdinand close, lips to lips, with a firm grip on the back of his head. The other squirms a little, doesn’t return it, and pushes Hubert away with a halfhearted shove on his shoulders, quickly wiping tears off his cheeks and staring, timid. Quiet. Flushed. Tear streaked.

Finally, Hubert speaks, or barks rather, overwhelming need dispelling even the idea of gentility that he might have considered once, maybe, in a dream.

“Shut up you imbecile and kiss me!”

Far too - or just enough, a sly whisper in his head tells him- reminiscent of a startled deer Ferdinand complies, frenzied and entirely lacking in any skill. It’s teeth, noses bumping, far too much spit dribbling from Ferdinand’s lips when he doesn’t realize he can pull back to swallow, wrapping his arms around Hubert and pushing himself flush to his chest, nails digging, and Hubert lets it happen like a punishment because it’s awkward and painful and- fuck, apparently everything he’d ever wanted.

Ferdinand is still crying somehow, and when his lips probably hurt just as much as Hubert’s from the assault, an extension to their sparring, he pulls back to apologize:

“Oh, oh Hubert I- I’ve never! This is so- ah, I don’t understand- “

Utterly foolish. Hubert shoots Ferdinand a stern look as he grabs his chin, annoyance laced with something else, something that feels foreign when it glides gentler over his tongue than what he would have wished:

“Silence, dimwit! You’re hopeless.”

Ferdinand pouts now, at least the tears seem to have stopped, but the expectation of words is written all over that expressive, stupid face. All Hubert can do is sigh. There’s only so much crying a man can take. He shoves Ferdinand off of him and gets off the ground as elegantly as he can manage given his present condition (which is not very). Those eyes bore into the back of his skull without Hubert even needing to turn around, so he announces curtly.

“…Get your jacket. We’re moving to somewhere more private.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Wait,” comes the flustered call of a boy practically stumbling over his own feet, “Hubert, please, ah-”

Hubert turns on his heel so suddenly that Ferdinand practically trips over himself to avoid a collision with him. The sniveling redhead has indeed recovered his jacket and followed after Hubert as requested, though he clearly doesn’t understand the situation he’s in.

“Did you not hear what I just said? We’ll discuss this somewhere private. Keep your mouth shut and follow me.”

Eager to deal with the matter free of potential interruptions, while not wanting to alert others to their urgency, Hubert sets a measured, brisk pace and keeps his expression neutral as they walk through the monastery grounds. Von Aegir finally gets the hint and follows for once in complete silence, eyes downcast, which is of course a pathetically bad tactic to not attract attention to their situation considering how out of character it is. A glance back to the dejected and nervous looking younger boy does stir something in Hubert, best left untouched outside of delimited privacy, and he calms himself with the knowledge that the average onlooker (bar maybe someone like Claude or their professor) would simply assume that their sparring resulted in a fight. He hears steps speed up behind him, followed by the feeling of fingers brushing against the suede of his glove, which Hubert rightly jerks away from. Is Ferdinand really so dense that he cannot follow the simplest of instructions?

When they reach the dorms Hubert notices Ferdinand's pace begin to flag, and grabs him by the wrist to drag him along. A sharp jerk in response isn't enough to get Hubert to let go, and by the time they reach Hubert's door Ferdinand is tugging away from him, so that when Hubert releases his hold to open the door all it takes is a small shove between his shoulder blades to destabilize Ferdinand and send him stumbling into the room, startled by the loud slam of the door getting kicked violently closed behind them.

Tempers flare immediately, both of them taking a step forwards, meeting the other at the center of the room. Like in their sparring, Ferdinand is faster, poking a finger at Hubert's chest in his best imitation of a threat:

“Now you listen here von Vestra, I will not be treated like this! You cannot simply h-have your way with your sparring partner to satisfy whatever- whatever sick urges that populate that twisted mind of yours! I very much hope you have brought me here to apologize, because, because...”

“Because what, von Aegir,” spits Hubert, leaning into the sharp pressure against his chest, daring Ferdinand to take it further, “because if not you will cry to the professor that some mean boy kissed you on the playground?”

The reply is cutting, far too sharp for playing, and Ferdinand visibly flinches. The moron is entirely obvious in his emotions, fists clenched and nibbling on his lower lip like the pampered overgrown child that he is. But whatever nobly fashioned bravado he’d momentarily mustered crumbles when he fails to recover from Hubert's blow, mouth gaping open and closed, rather reminiscent of the grilled Airmid Goby the dining hall serves neatly crucified on skewers.

“I’ll have you remember, Ferdinand," a poisonous inflection staining the name as the breath carrying it catches between Hubert's teeth, "that you returned my kiss. Why would you do such a thing if it was so terrible?”

Hubert notes the bitter taste of the words in his mouth, but pays them no heed. Instead he grabs Ferdinand's wrist where his hand has come to rest rather than poke at his chest, using the motion to push Ferdinand away from him. An expression he's never seen before flashes across Ferdinand's face, and his next words are blurted out shrill with it, dripping with something... Something Hubert fails to recognize.

“Well perhaps I was embarrassed for you! I did not want to hurt your feelings!”

Hubert hates Ferdinand.

That realization lasts an age, drawn out by the twisting pain of Ferdinand's outrage at him. Hubert can clearly see the moment has gotten away with them, but it tumbles out of control faster than even he can keep up, spiraling down an open chasm created when the meeting of their lips tore apart the little solid ground there was between them: their cultivated cordial distaste, the careful attention to their shared brand of banter designed to prickle the other, a lid on the boiling pot of compulsive urges that Hubert consciously keeps at bay.

And now it's all gone. There's nothing holding them back from sheer, unbridled, disdain. When Hubert speaks again, the eternal aching second finally over, it's with intent. An intent normally reserved for the battlefield, for the mice he dissects, for himself when his body demands something his heart cannot give.

“My feelings? You think I have feelings for you, von Aegir? You pompous self-important dandy! Don’t tell me you’ve never noticed others react physically during training on instinct!”

This is ridiculous, Hubert thinks, as his shoulders heave and his breathing stutters in anger. They should both stop and be done with it. A stupid, pathetic kiss isn't worth feeling like this. Ferdinand must agree, because his face is painted red and tears streak down his cheeks. Again. For the second time today, Ferdinand is crying.

“No, no Hubert," Ferdinand's words barely make it out between hiccuped sniffles, "because that would imply you even have feelings in the first place! You’re nothing more than a mean, preying vulture! A vulture who stole my first kiss! You ruined it!”

Ferdinand clasps a hand to his mouth at the admission he likely finds unbefitting of a noble, but his eyes betray the smoldering anger that led to the insult. In all honesty Hubert agrees, of the many things Ferdinand has accused him of being, a vulture is probably the most accurate. Yet despite the momentary regret, Ferdinand quickly drops his hand and puffs his chest out, not ready to be intimidated. Yes of course, look at him. Standing up to the mean bully Hubert, like the noble defender of the weak that he is. Hubert twitches in response, his own fists clenched now. So, Ferdinand finds him a bully? Well then, it's a role Hubert is only too used to playing, since who Hubert really is clearly doesn't matter to Ferdinand at this point. Let him have his villain, if he can take it.

Already at his wits end, Hubert takes a deep breath and closes the distance between them, deliberately crowding Ferdinand's space so there's no room for him to misinterpret the mocking tone of his voice.

“Oh I ruined your first kiss now? Well, how about we ruin you some more shall we?”

Ferdinand takes a shaky step back, reaching behind him to steady himself on the edge of the desk he hits. Perfect, yes, that's it. Cower in fear. Play the victim.

“What will you do Ferdinand," Hubert continues, "if this vulture swoops in to steal more than a virgin kiss? If I am so terrible, then why did you follow me here?”

Ferdinand gulps, forced to look up to Hubert who is now looming down over him. His knuckles are likely as stark a white as the gloves hiding them.

“A-as I said, Hubert. You owe me an apology!”

Hubert tilts Ferdinand’s chin up with his own gloved finger, ignoring the sound of blood pumping in his ears. Ignoring the way its beat matches that of Ferdinand's labored breath. Hubert smiles slyly, a practice smile he learnt from those he grew up studying, those who under the guise of nobility and crests steal lives and torture children.

“Well then, Ferdinand von Aegir, I apologize for stealing your first kiss. Would you like it in writing? Perhaps a formal apology to the lady you were considering courting?”

And then it finally happens, Ferdinand grabs Hubert’s jacket and raises a hand as if he’s about to slap him. 

“You are HORRIBLE Hubert! I hate you!”

Hubert’s eyes widen but he stays still, watching the weak, pathetic little boy hesitate. It's easy, Hubert knows, all it takes is a gentle push in the right direction:

“Oh Ferdinand. You’re too weak to even be capable of hate.”

_Slap_.

Is it supposed to feel this good, to be hated?

"Really, von Aegir? Is that it?" 

_Slap_.

This time the slap sends Hubert reeling hard, stinging, the entire weight of Ferdinand's trained body behind it. A wave of heat overcomes him and bubbles out into an unrestrained, needy, aroused moan.

_Shit_, Hubert thinks. _Fuck_.

There's no mistaking it to either of them. That was a moan of arousal, not pain.

Before he can even register the extent of the searing heat of the slap spreading through him, Hubert lands with a hard, painful thud on the ground. When he looks up Ferdinand is stood above him, arms drawn up in front of his chest in a defensive guard, and it takes a few seconds for Hubert to realize that Ferdinand pushed him and is practically screaming at him:

"Get away from me! What in the goddess’s name is wrong with you Hubert?!”

Wild panic sets in now, already coating Hubert's usually unkempt hair with a heavy sheen of sweat, causing it to stick to his face. This is _not_ what he had planned, he was supposed to have Ferdinand bend to him, writhing and crying under his touch, but, no matter, this can still easily be fixed, all he has to do is gather himself, ignore the painful arousal between his legs, that's it Hubert, smooth it over somehow:

“Ferdinand, please, this is not what you think. How about we apologize, set this quarrel aside and-”

Ferdinand snorts, loud and crass, and actually steps closer to him. One more step and Hubert would find himself lying between Ferdinand's legs, his mind offers unhelpfully. They're both too far gone, Ferdinand's anger taking over his usually unwavering sense of propriety, edging him closer to the limit that the slap already pushed Hubert over.

“Oh, oh that would be just grand now, wouldn't it?"

Ferdinand sounds manic, his words spoken dramatically but with a hint of disgust, as if he's a leading actor forced to take on a role he considers beneath him. He bows, one hand behind his back in the proper form, the other gesturing down towards Hubert as one would to welcome a guest.

"Yes Hubert, of course! All is forgiven! I shall simply forget we kissed and that I now know you are erotically afflicted by… Being slapped in the face? Tell me, what caused this? Is this how Edelgard keeps you in line? Is that why you follow her around like a domesticated pet?”

It is no surprise to Hubert that his mind is somewhat twisted, but the way Ferdinand shines as he utters those hateful, jeering words, the way he fills all of Hubert's vision and being, that is a sensation he has never experienced and that he isn't sure he can keep at bay. It blurs and addles his thoughts, commands him to beg, submit, it promises a sweet release that alone is always accompanied by one of self-hate, it's a gamble, a plea for them to return to what happened earlier, Ferdinand's lance restricting Hubert's breathing and a painful kiss-

“Ferdinand, please, I-”

“Please what, Hubert?”

Hubert, disarmed by the sneer he expects to be the one dispensing, fails to keep the truth from his escaping his lips:

“Please Ferdinand. All I wanted was for us to share another kiss.”

The admission seems ridiculous now, and Ferdinand cannot be faulted for his unhinged laughter, wiping tears from his eyes as he taunts in response:

“Kiss me? Are you mad? You're only fit to kiss my boots while you lie at my feet.”

Oh, the promise of it is sickly sweet to Hubert's arousal addled mind, and it's too easy, all it takes is for Hubert to curl where he's sat, shifting onto his knees with his palms resting beside both of Ferdinand's feet. It's obvious, surely, what he's about to do, though in the moment he couldn't tell you why, but all that matters is that his lips grace the dust covered leather of Ferdinand's boot. Ghost it, at first, until the shame of tasting dirt at a golden virgin's feet drives him wild, his cock harder and face hotter than he's ever felt in his life. So unbearably good, it feels and tastes heavenly, and before he knows it Hubert is lapping pathetically and whining at Ferdinand's feet.

And Ferdinand isn't stopping him, he's frozen, mouth failing to make words for a reason Hubert doesn't care to know. The moment doesn't last, and quickly Hubert's chin takes a knock that forces him to acknowledge the boy, distressed and panting above him.

“Hubert, stop this at once! You cannot think me serious!”

"You're aroused," Hubert remarks rather stupidly, "tell me honestly you're not enjoying this. And I shall stop."

It's a gamble, but it seems to work, Ferdinand's lips failing to produce anything but a whine in response. When he tries to pull his foot away, some kind of pathetic needy desperation drives Hubert to grab Ferdinand's leg to hold him in place, threatening to destabilize him or inviting Ferdinand to use real force to get him to stop. Ferdinand clasps a hand back to his mouth to muffle a moan, and Hubert, well he holds on to Ferdinand’s boot for dear life, mostly because his arousal is so intense that he can barely see through the sparks populating his vision, let alone think straight. All he wants is for Ferdinand’s hands or boots to be on him again and for them to hurt, for the words to hurt, for his pain to lead to someone's completion, preferably Ferdinand's, so he can atone for this selfish twisted desire of his and have Ferdinand ignore him for the rest of their academy days-

“Ferdinand, please," Hubert croaks in a last attempt, "I shall stop, if you can tell me right now there isn’t a single thing about this you’re enjoying.”

Ferdinand snaps and kicks Hubert off him, his eyes darting around wildly in their sockets. So easy to read, that expressive face, eyes widening and mouth forming a small 'oh' that lasts just long enough for Hubert to register it.

“Enjoy this? What is there to enjoy about a dog slobbering over one’s boot?”

There's an obvious bulge in Ferdinand's pants, which makes the words seem calculated. Hubert can feel his consciousness slipping at the thought that Ferdinand maybe is doing this for him despite everything, eyes glazing over at the sight of the other's arousal, and he whines for it. It could be so simple, if Ferdinand only ordered him to do it. The blame and responsibility shifted. Hubert realizes vaguely he must look like _something_ depraved, because Ferdinand gasps when he gazes down at him, voice dropping to a near whisper:

“You’ll have to do much better,” a pause, during which Hubert rocks forward on his knees eagerly, “for me to enjoy this.”

They’re inching closer to each other again, though this time Hubert reverently places his hands on Ferdinand’s hips rather than cling to him for dear life. The pleading, respectful touch was likely enough, but for certainty he whispers, voice close to breaking:

“Anything, Ferdinand. Use me.”

An uncertain silence falls over them, and Ferdinand leans over just enough to grab a fistful of Hubert’s hair and direct him slowly towards his crotch, holding him back as much as he's leading him on. Hubert's eyes near roll right back into his head, so giddy the guidance makes him. Just minutes ago, Ferdinand was upset over his first kiss, and now, this? It's unreal, a dream almost, and despite the layer of fabric, there's a faint hint of sweat and musk recognizable when Hubert nuzzles the hardness trapped under it, rubbing his face against it and moaning like a bitch in heat.

"S-still not good enough," stutters Ferdinand, urging Hubert closer. "Undress me, you hound. Do your job properly."

The words drip over him, the humiliation bringing an eruption of heat, a molten redemption burning to ashes any lingering sense of self that could've stood in the way of Hubert obeying.

"Of course," he replies, "as you wish."

This seems to reassure Ferdinand, his body shaking with a violent shiver of release that ends in a sigh, and Hubert squeezes those hard, muscular thighs in recognition of it when Ferdinand curves towards, rather than away from him. Though he's hardly aware of himself, Hubert breathes in every smallest notion of Ferdinand, the way he slightly lifts himself up on his tiptoes and stretches with every inhale, the width of his hips leading up to a pronounced indent at his waist, the shine of the buttons of his trousers as he dutifully releases them, slowly, one by one. All of it, he acknowledges with kisses, every press of his lips to the slightest part of Ferdinand making his own cock twitch where it strains against its confinement.

When he hears no opposition, Hubert pulls the open trousers and unlaced drawers to rest halfway down Ferdinand's thighs. The grip in Hubert's hair only tightens, and pulls him away sharply at the first hint of Hubert's lips on his cockhead. Of course, his addled mind offers, you mustn't forget that Ferdinand is still a _virgin_.

"Oh- ah- Hubert-"

"Shh, Ferdinand. Let me take care of this."

And so Hubert starts licking carefully, running his tongue in long lengths over Ferdinand's perfectly thick cock. The motions are as innocent as he can keep them, though they're narrated by Hubert's short, gasped whines. Precum spills from Ferdinand's cockhead when Hubert tilts it ever so gently towards his lips, letting it rest there rather than take it in straight away and overwhelm him, teasing it with darting licks to lap up the salty taste of him. It's already too much for Ferdinand however, who thrusts his hips forward on instinct and moans loudly at the feeling, shoving his cock into Hubert's mouth, who gladly lets his jaw fall slack to take it. When Ferdinand goes to pull out, Hubert hollows out his cheeks to grant him a languid suck, which turns Ferdinand's mumbled apology into a shaking cry.

"No- ah, stop, I- oh, Hubert!"

Ferdinand comes with a violent jerk of his hips, apparently thinking it necessary to pull Hubert off him and instead smearing the last of his cum all over his face. Hubert swallows what did stay in his mouth, of course, and holds Ferdinand in place against the desk while he cries through the aftershocks of his unexpected orgasm, attempting to soothe him with gentle shushes and soft licks at his still slightly weeping dick. He tucks Ferdinand away neatly, not daring to make eye contact with him now that the reality of the moment washes over them. Laces and buttons are put back to work, and Hubert rests his head against Ferdinand's thigh, hands still firmly anchored on his hips. Though he's still hard, any desire he had leaves him at the sound of Ferdinand's sobbing and sniffs.

It wasn't supposed to go like this, Hubert thinks, and for once in his life he has no idea how to deal with the situation. Before his thoughts can devolve any further, he's surprised by a gentle tap on his shoulder, not having registered that Ferdinand had let go of his hair, nor that he has cum slowly drying on his face.

"Please, get up. Don't stay like that," begs Ferdinand, whose eyes widen when Hubert finds himself facing him once more, "oh, I'm sorry, please, allow me."

Hubert watches in confusion as Ferdinand reaches for something in his pocket, which turns out to be a handkerchief, that Ferdinand is now carefully wiping up his own cum with off Hubert's face. How on earth did they end up here? He closes his eyes as Ferdinand tends to him, own brow knit in a pained frown.

"Hubert please, say something."

Ferdinand is looking up at him with naive expectation, eyes still red from crying, much like those pretty freckled cheeks of his.

"I'm sorry, Ferdinand."

“You are a horrible man, Hubert.”

“I know.”

"And you still stole my first kiss."

"Yes."

"Would you like to kiss me again?"

"Yes. Though it would be wiser for us to talk first."

“But, you will kiss me again if I wish?”

“I will.”

"And not just once?"

"No, not if I can help it."

"Not just today?"

"Maybe."

"Then, kiss me properly this time."

Ferdinand huffs while Hubert laughs, and they're so close there's barely enough room between them to breathe. Hubert pushes himself up against Ferdinand and lifts him onto the desk, and Ferdinand wraps his arms around Hubert's neck to stay steady as he melts into their first real kiss, like it's the most natural thing in the world after what just happened between them. Talking will have to come later.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on Twitter @chryseliss for more Ferdibert nonsense!


End file.
